


“Oh, What A Tangled Web We Weave”

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Italian Mafia, Prison, Unholy Alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Actually, the entire quote from Sir Walter Scott to finish the title is as follows: "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive." It refers to how complicated life becomes when people start lying to each other. There is a wealth of deceit in this story, and a tangled web of intrigue involving Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey. Maybe deception has destroyed their bond.





	1. The Fall From Grace

“You can’t or you won’t?” Peter demanded harshly while confronting his CI.

“Maybe both,” Neal replied without meeting his handler’s eyes.

“Neal, if you can’t or won’t level with me and tell me why you did such a stupid thing, I can’t help you!” Peter all but roared in frustration as he threw up his hands and started pacing the floor of Neal’s loft.

Peter, of course, was referring to the irrefutable evidence, courtesy of Neal’s anklet, that the young fool had broken into the Marshals Building. He left a damning electronic trail a mile wide when it became evident that he had accessed the whereabouts of someone being held in temporary witness protection. That person was a hired killer. Fingerprints on a shell casing found atop a high-rise building in Manhattan proved that he was the sniper responsible for a New York City Councilman’s murder. When apprehended, that individual bartered for a lesser sentence if he agreed to testify against one of the big mob bosses in the city who had ordered the hit. Vincent Pullara was, indeed, a big fish, and the Feds had been trying to bring him down for years. The deceased councilman had been spearheading a judicial taskforce that was making the Italian mafioso sweat, so the intrepid politician had to go.

Somehow, the hired assassin had gotten wind that he had been compromised, and he fled protective custody. To date, the FBI couldn’t find a trace of him, so their case against Pullara had fallen apart. His lawyer was in the process of filing a motion to have all charges dropped for lack of evidence or witnesses. Before long, the kingpin would once again be back on the street running his little empire.

“Neal, you’re usually more clever and circumspect during a caper,” a frustrated Peter continued his tirade. “This time you were beyond sloppy. You all but stood up and waved a red flag in my face. Did you think that our relationship would protect you from the fallout? There are going to be repercussions because this has escalated right up the ladder to the top. You’re looking at jailtime again, and this go around there won’t be any parole.”

“I never expected any special treatment from you, Peter,” Neal said as he gazed off into space. “Do whatever you need to do.”

“Just tell me why, Neal,” Peter insisted. “At least you owe me that much for the trust and faith that I had placed in you these last years.”

“Don’t try and play the guilt card, Peter. You once said that I was a criminal and that’s all I’d ever be, so I guess you were right,” Neal sneered in what Peter perceived as a flash of disdain—or maybe that emotion was one of hurt arising from a handler’s clumsy, thoughtless words once uttered in the heat of the moment.

Peter took a calming breath and grabbed his petulant CI by his upper arms. “Neal, just trust me now and let me in—please.”

When Neal remained stubbornly silent, Peter suddenly had an epiphany of sorts. “I doubt that you would place yourself directly in the crosshairs if there wasn’t a good reason. Pullara has something on you, something that he’s holding over your head so that you would agree to do his bidding, no matter what the cost. What was the threat, Neal, that would make you willing to become a fall guy for a thug?”

“There was no threat to me, Peter,” Neal insisted. “Stop grasping at straws to make sense of something that is very simple. I did what I did because I chose to do so without fearing for my life from the Mafia or anyone else.”

“You once said that you’ve never lied to me,” Peter reminded his CI who had become an unlikely friend. “Please don’t start now. If you weren’t the target of some distorted form of coercion or blackmail, then you did what you did to protect someone else. Who did you think you were saving, Neal? Kate’s gone, so my money’s on Mozzie. That little imp has been the fly in the ointment since I’ve known you.”

“Leave Mozzie out of this!” Neal snapped.

Peter snorted in rebuttal. “I’ll bring that snide, irritating troublemaker in and grill him mercilessly until I get what I want,” Peter was now into his own threats. “Everybody has a breaking point, and I’ll find his!”

“Peter, please stop,” a soft voice wafted through the tense room, causing both an angry FBI agent and the object of his wrath to swivel their heads around. June Ellington walked regally into the loft. She looked at Neal fondly and then turned to Peter.

“Mozzie wasn’t in any danger,” she said quietly.

“June, don’t,” Neal pleaded.

The elegant matron smiled at her boarder who had become like a son. “My dear sweet boy, I appreciate your gallantry, but I can’t let you fall on your sword for me or my family.”

“Did someone threaten you, June?” Peter was flabbergasted at first, but then it did explain Neal’s erratic behavior.

“Not me personally, but one of my granddaughters,” she told him.

“Was it the young art student?” Peter couldn’t recall the pretty girl’s name.

“No, not Cindy,” June explained. “It was my younger one, the twelve-year-old who had the kidney transplant a few years ago.”

“Tell me everything, June,” Peter said softly as he guided the older lady to a chair at the table.

“June, you don’t have to do this,” Neal interrupted. “It won’t change the facts, and it’s definitely not in your best interests or those of your family. I can take care of myself, no matter what happens. They can’t.”

“But it’s the right thing to do for you,” the matron insisted, “because I couldn’t just blithely ignore your sacrifice.”

June Ellington could be a formidable lady and Neal knew he was losing the argument. In frustration, he walked out onto the patio and dejectedly leaned over the balustrade to stare at the faraway skyline of the city. June gazed at his retreating back with a warm smile on her face. “That boy is one of a kind, and I mean that in a good way,” she whispered. “That’s definitely something you should know up front, Agent Burke.”

“I do know that, June. Now please make me understand his motivation for putting himself in front of a runaway train,” Peter said just as softly.

“Very well,” the older woman complied, “I’ll fill you in on the story. One evening last week, a middle-aged individual appeared at my door oozing a sense of urbane sophistication in a three-piece suit with a Gucci briefcase in his hand. He looked quite the part of a cultured gentleman, but looks can be deceiving. That man was no gentleman. Instead, he was a snake in the grass sent on a very special errand. He said that he had a business proposition to discuss with my boarder. When I fetched Neal, this man smiled and asked me to stay because I might find his visit interesting as well.”

June allowed herself a little shudder before continuing with her account. “This disgusting human being actually sat in my parlor and began to relate what he called a little fairy tale. He started out by saying that once upon a time there was a mighty king who ruled the land. Many people were jealous of his riches and tried to oust him from his rightful place on the throne. Of course, he dealt with these antagonistic annoyances by employing the aid of trusted subordinates. Sadly, one of the messengers was traitorous and began accusing the king of ordering unjust actions. Some people actually began to take this Judas seriously, which then caused the king to be imprisoned. According to the storyteller, that seemed to be quite an unfair situation because the king should have been able to face his accuser and demand that he stop telling lies. Unfortunately, that could not happen because the evil liar went into hiding.”

June ended her rendition by telling Peter how her guest had then pulled a newspaper out of his briefcase and laid it on the coffee table. “It was a _New York Times_ front page story about a mobster named Vincent Pullara being taken into custody and charged with orchestrating a murder for hire that resulted in a city councilman’s death. The article spelled everything out right down to the hitman’s agreement to testify against the mobster. Then this odious monster actually smiled and addressed Neal. He said something along the lines of how Neal had the expertise to find out a person’s whereabouts, if he were so inclined. The next thing that this man pulled out of his briefcase did make Neal inclined to help.”

Peter was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. “What did he show you, June? What did he use to intimidate both of you?”

The matron sat up a little straighter. “It was a series of 8x10 black and white photos, and on the surface they looked harmless enough if you ignored the unspoken implications,” she said with a hardness in her voice. “Neal and I found ourselves looking at my sweet grandbaby at various times. One picture was taken outside of the private academy where she goes to school. She’s innocently laughing with a little circle of girlfriends. Another photo was taken as she was descending the steps of her orthodontist’s office, and the last one showed her playing soccer in the park.”

“What else did this man say?” Peter’s voice was now hard as well.

“There was no need for him to say anything at that point because the meaning was crystal clear,” Peter heard Neal speak up. The young con man had quietly come in from the patio and was standing with his hands in his pockets and a murderous scowl on his face.

“Can either of you work with a sketch artist to help us nail down his identity?” Peter asked hopefully.

“What would be the point of that, Peter?” Neal said tiredly. “There were no overt threats made, and he spelled it all out, chapter and verse, without naming any names. The photos were all long-distance shots taken outside, and none of them could be construed as threatening. Face it, Peter, finding the messenger will get you nowhere.”

Peter sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. “So, you played Sir Galahad instead of coming to me?”

Neal rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Peter, don’t try to tell me that the mighty FBI would have been able to do anything. I’m not gullible enough to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. The Feds were stymied for years until they managed to corral the sniper. Unfortunately, the District Attorney’s golden goose flew the coop. That’s the end of the fairy tale, so just accept what you can’t change, since that’s what I’m going to do.”

For the second time that evening, Peter felt enlightened. “You’re the one who got word to the sniper that he was compromised! How did I not see that?”

“I didn’t want anyone’s death on my conscience, not even a killer’s,” Neal said softly.

“Even though you had the best of intentions, I still have to take you in, Neal,” Peter said sadly. “You violated your parole and, by doing so, you put a violent criminal back on the street. I told the Marshals and Hughes that I wanted to be the one to put the cuffs on you. More than likely, you’ll be sent off to Riker’s tomorrow until arrangements are made to transport you back upstate to Sing Sing.”

“Darling, I’ll get the best lawyer that money can buy,” June promised.

“It’s okay, June, really,” Neal smiled. “I went into this with my eyes wide open and I knew the consequences.”

During the car ride back to the lockup, Peter had a lot more to say to his impetuous CI.


	2. Thrown Under the Bus

Riker’s Island was just as Neal remembered—a cauldron of dangerous men with a raw anger seething just below the surface. The least little provocation, intentional or not, could cause the simmering hostility to boil over with often fatal consequences. Neal knew this was just a prelude to a similar atmosphere awaiting him in Ossining. Sing Sing had its own sense of danger because men faced with interminably long sentences, or life behind bars, had little to lose. They may have lost hope, but they never lost their primal animosity or their lethal intent.

The expensive defense lawyer that June had engaged for Neal was hamstrung because his young criminal, citing attorney/client privilege, made it clear that the lawyer could not divulge any of the facts in the case and argue that there were extenuating circumstances for Neal’s rash actions. To his credit, the man stalled Neal’s move to Federal prison as long as he could hoping that his client would have a change of heart. That never happened, just as it had never happened during the long car ride with Peter. Neal threatened that if Peter ever divulged anything he had heard that night, Neal would categorically claim it was all a lie—a fabrication by an FBI agent who had been duped by his CI and was trying to save face. Apparently, Peter took Neal at his word. He never came to see his CI during the long days that Neal still languished behind bars in the city, and the proof of his handler’s silence was hammered home when Neal’s only visitor, Diana Berrigan, came for a tense sit down.

“Caffrey,” she scowled at him menacingly, “I can’t believe you would do something so stupid, not to mention so hurtful to Peter.”

“Believe it, Diana,” Neal replied tersely.

Now the angry female agent leveled both barrels. “Do you know what you have done—really done to the one person who believed in you? Peter risked his career to get your dumb ass out of prison, and this is how you repay him? He’s not the same person anymore. He’s lost faith in his own judgment, and ‘depressed’ doesn’t even cover how he’s probably feeling!”

Neal was determined that if he was going to crash and burn, he was going to leave a trail of scorched earth behind him. With a cavalier shrug, he responded to Diana’s tantrum. “You always were his biggest cheerleader, Diana. In time, your boss will get over his funk and be the big, tough Federal Agent that you so admire. I’ll wager a bet that if you were straight, you’d make yourself competition for Elizabeth Burke.”

“You’re a coarse, ungrateful son of a bitch, Caffrey!” Diana hissed. “Do you even have a soul?”

“Probably not,” he answered with another shrug. “Now, if you’re done venting your displeasure, why don’t you shelve your little snit and go catch some bad guys. I’m already stuck in here, so you’ll have to hunt down other nasty criminals.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The day before Neal was to be transported from Rikers back to Sing Sing, he found himself walking beside none other than Vincent Pullara on the way to the mess hall.

“Mr. Pullara, I’m surprised you’re still hanging out here with all of us scum from the gutter,” Neal taunted.

“Do I know you, punk?” the older man growled.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t play coy,” Neal continued to goad the Italian. “I’m your patsy, the one responsible for getting you out of this hellhole. Thanks to me, you’ll be a free man tomorrow while I’m on my way to the big house.”

“I guess that sucks for you,” Pullara smirked.

“Yeah, it does, but I think you owe me,” Neal challenged.

“I don’t owe you shit, kid,” the Italian growled.

“Are you quite sure about that?” the con man said softly. “I used to have a Fed’s ear, and it wouldn’t be very hard to whisper in it one more time. Maybe then it would suck for you, too.”

“That may not be so good for your continued wellbeing,” Pullara hissed.

Neal merely smiled. “Look, my friend, I’m now a three-times-and-you’re-done felon with very little left to lose.”

“How about your ability to breathe,” Pullara threatened.

Now Neal actually laughed. “Really—that’s your answer? I’m not your average stupid sap, Mr. Pullara. I was smart enough to put contingencies in place. If I bite it, then your ass will be in a sling before you can snap your fingers. Are you a betting man willing to risk it?”

The Mafia kingpin actually stopped walking and gave Neal an appraising glare. “Look, kid, I’m no magician and there’s only so much I can do for you.”

“Ah, c’mon, Sir, put on your thinking cap and get creative,” Neal bravely parried.

The older man continued to scowl, but finally offered up just a small tidbit. “You know, Caffrey, you’re a very pretty boy, and that means you’re gonna be a big temptation for some sex-starved fellow inmates. I may have some connections inside the joint. I could make sure that you’re left alone and protected from any hungry predators. But that can all change if you decide to open your trap and start singing.”

“Well, at least that’s a start,” Neal said smugly as he walked away.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Neal, securely manacled and wearing an orange jumpsuit, was hustled into a prison bus headed for his old haunt. He almost expected that Peter would make an appearance before his departure, maybe looking sanctimonious or, if Diana could be believed, a bit bereft. However, that hadn’t taken place, and as the scenery flashed by the bus window, Neal had time for his own pangs of depression. He was being sent away for a long time, possibly the prime years of his life. It was ironic that the higher you soared, the farther you fell, and Neal’s descent into hell was going to be very steep. He began to have doubts that he would survive the plunge.

Meanwhile, Warden Haskley was having his own qualms about Neal Caffrey. The criminal who had caused him a great deal of embarrassment was returning once again, popping in and out of Sing Sing like a friggin’ jack-in-the-box. Well, this time it was going to be different—being forewarned meant being forearmed. After the convict’s probationary period ended, there was no way the inmate was going to get anywhere near a computer. Straightening out his wife’s credit card problems had been a massive headache for Haskley after the last Caffrey debacle. Maybe he’d assign the young menace to the laundry.

As the warden pondered his dilemma, Neal was undergoing the indignity of being processed back into the system. That entailed stripping down and having every orifice of his body minutely scrutinized and probed by rough hands encased in latex gloves. After that, he was perfunctorily checked out by the prison physician, then given bedding and an additional jumpsuit before finally being shuffled off to a small, narrow cubicle on the second tier of a cell block. Neal knew it was impossible, but it seemed as if he could feel menacing eyes actually boring holes into his back as he moved down the line. That night, old familiar sounds and scents returned like flashes of déjà vu. He heard men snoring loudly while others yelled out threats or curse words during their nightmares. Still other loud moans were the result of solitary orgasms achieved by sexually-deprived men during virtual fantasies playing out in the darkness. Neal could remember doing the same thing not so long ago when he imagined Kate in his arms.

Bobby, the still overweight night guard, stopped outside Neal’s cell that first evening after lights out. “Back again I see. That’s a real shame, boy. I really thought you were smarter than this,” he said shaking his head sadly.

“Me, too, Bobby,” Neal answered softly.

Neal was savvy after his previous incarceration and knew the first step in survival was figuring out who the head honchos were that ruled the gangs inside the stone and barbed wire fortress. It didn’t take too long to recognize each ethnic group who crudely claimed their little bits of turf like male dogs lifting their legs to mark their territory. Although many of them leered or scowled in his direction, none was brave enough to try accosting him. It seemed as if Vincent Pullara did have some major clout, and Neal found himself a bit less apprehensive while being under his protection. Actually, his continued survival was thanks to a man named Sal Spinnato, no doubt one of the Mafia boss’s minions tasked with keeping Neal safe.

By the second month of his sentence, Neal was spending his days in the huge on-site laundry. It was hot, labor-intensive work, but it filled the long empty hours. By the third month, Mozzie began visiting. He had come fully prepared with legal documents that named him as Neal’s new lawyer, and the two men could have frank discussion without the fear of being overheard or recorded thanks to the lawyer/client privilege affording complete privacy. Mozzie’s briefcase was usually overflowing with reams of paper that included copies of the Bill of Rights, the entire Constitution, as well as whole chapters photocopied from Sun Tzu’s _The Art of War._ Those papers would sit on the conference table between the two men with never a single page used as a reference. Neal and Mozzie’s visits were sixty minutes of intelligence sharing, careful planning, and possible implementation.

By the fourth month of his incarceration, Neal had earned an hour of “free” time. He chose to spend it in what the prison euphemistically called a gym. There were just a few pieces of tired, worn out equipment in the room, so Neal usually kept his lean body toned by lifting weights. He sauntered in one morning and claimed his usual spot near the bench press. While he was adding the weight plates to the bar, he saw Spinnato enter and lackadaisically begin working the elliptical machine.

“How about you spot me,” Neal called out as he laid back on the bench.

“Now why should I do that?” Spinnato snorted.

“Maybe because it’s your job to be my spotter,” Neal challenged. “You’ve been watching out for me since I got to Sing Sing. If I see your boss, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’ve been doing a superb job.”

“You’re one cocky son of a bitch,” the other man sneered as he stepped down from the exercise machine and meandered over.

“I’ve been called worse,” Neal smiled.

“Just count your blessings while they last, Caffrey. My boss could change his mind anytime down the road,” Neal’s bodyguard said ominously.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Neal predicted confidently.

“Oh yeah—why’s that?” Spinnato asked curiously.

“Because I’m a very clever and handy guy to have on your side. Tell your chief to watch his mailbox for a clue as to how resourceful I can be,” Neal replied with another smarmy smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

As foretold, Vincent Pullara received a large manila envelope two days later. Inside was a close-up picture of the hitman-turned rat boldly glaring into the camera. He seemed to be seated at a kitchen table because behind him it was easy to make out a sink, a coffee machine, and wall hung cabinetry. The very next week during Neal’s free hour in the gym, Sal Spinnato had questions.

“My boss wants more information, like how did you make a certain photograph appear like magic.”

Neal shrugged. “I once told him that I had contingencies in place and friends who could carry them out,” he said nonchalantly. “Those buddies of mine were quite proficient running a certain person to ground. Now the question is, what do they do with him?”

“Is that a threat?” Spinnato said menacingly. “Are they planning to turn him over to the Feds?”

“Nah, I’m not that stupid,” Neal quickly protested. “I’m not shaking the big man down because, in the long run, that would not change my present situation. The picture simply means that certain friends of mine have extended their hospitality to a former employee of you know who. They can make sure to keep the weak-willed traitor detained indefinitely. I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that this guest is a loose end for your boss. Perhaps he may want to have a face-to-face encounter to set that little snag to rights. I can make that happen, but I’m not into charity. I want something in return.”

“Like what?” the Italian bodyguard snarled.

“It’s a twofold request, actually,” Neal stated firmly. “First, I need to get out of this hellhole, and then I want to hear him order a hit on someone else. Then we can get down to what really matters to him after I get what I want. If he agrees to the terms of this negotiation, hopefully, any new assassin that he chooses will be more discrete once the job is done.”

“So, who pissed you off enough that you want ‘em whacked?” Spinnato whispered.

“Special Agent Peter Burke,” Neal replied coldly.


	3. Sorry, Warden Haskley

Two weeks later, Neal’s work assignment was changed. Now he had a job in the huge kitchen responsible for providing three meals a day to over 1,700 prisoners. It was still hard work, hot and sticky, only marginally better than toiling in the massive laundry. However, Neal knew it was but the first step in setting up his escape.

Twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, food supplies as well as paper goods were delivered via a tractor trailer that backed up to the double doors in the rear of the kitchen. Inmates would use hand trucks to unload crates and boxes from within the cavernous interior. That process took hours. On one particular Thursday, the rig chugged up to the gates at the prison’s exit checkpoint after unlading. As was the routine, the rear doors were opened and guards with dogs climbed aboard to make sure the semi was truly empty. That appeared to be the case and the dogs never alerted their handlers. In fact, the German Shepherds were almost hesitant to do their usual sniffing within the cargo bay. The driver was standing off to the side watching the whole procedure and offered a possible reason for the dogs’ disinterest.

“A huge plastic container of cayenne pepper got crushed during the trip over here, so maybe the canine cops don’t want to get their noses burned if they sniff some up.”

That explanation seemed to fly with the guards. They slammed the back doors shut and told the driver to be on his way. Once back in the city, the hauler parked the big rig in a warehouse. Only then did he pull up the loose boards in the false floor to release the escapee from his hidden niche beneath them. Neal Caffrey was out and about and on a mission to get revenge.

~~~~~~~~~

“Caffrey escaped again?” Jones said in disbelief when Diana told him the news. “That dude is like some kind of Houdini. How’s Peter taking it?”

“He’s acting like he doesn’t care,” Diana said, “claims he’s so done with Neal, and now the slick criminal can be somebody’s else’s problem to find.”

“Yeah?” Jones said skeptically. “The boss always wanted to find Caffrey before. I’m just saying, I would think he’d be even more driven now.”

“Look, Jones, Neal is a very sore subject for Peter, so just let it alone,” Diana cautioned.

“I guess I can understand his point of view,” Jones agreed.

Peter did, indeed, appear indifferent about the escape. He never once mentioned it to his junior agents. He mostly stayed in his office, although he frequently disappeared from time to time, and Diana managed to find out that he was visiting the Organized Crime Division on an upper floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Peter waited and worried, Neal was busy planning his next move. When sufficient time had passed that enough tension had ratcheted up in his adversary’s mind, he boldly made a visit to the Don’s home in North Caldwell, New Jersey. The con man was nattily dressed in a dark suit, purple shirt, and had his trademark Fedora perched jauntily on his head. He docilly submitted to the obligatory pat down before he was ever allowed to get past the front door of the palatial mansion. He was then strong-armed into an impressive library where Vincent Pullara was already seated. Neal carelessly flung his hat onto a nearby velvet banquette and stepped towards the old Italian, but he was stopped in his tracks by another bodyguard holding a wand in his hand. After that piece of equipment was swept over every part of his anatomy, the careful inspector proclaimed that there were no listening devices on Neal’s body.

“So, Mr. Pullara, can we finally get down to business?” Neal asked pleasantly as he gracefully took a seat, shot his cuffs, and smoothed out the creases in his trousers.

“It’s past time for us to iron this thing out,” the Mafioso snarled. “You’ve kept me hanging, Caffrey, and I am not a patient man.”

“Well, I am, as well as being a careful one,” Neal replied easily. “I appreciate the assistance getting me out of Sing Sing, but now it’s on me to make certain I don’t go back. I’m sure you realize that I have to be cautious in our negotiations.”

Th old man snorted in disdain. “I don’t care about your problems, chump. Our business is cut and dried and very simple. I want the whereabouts of the sniper who was going to sing for the Feds, and, in return, I’ll arrange for your former handler, Peter Burke, to die.”

Neal pondered those words for a few seconds. “Surely you must understand that I have some reservations about the people you hire. The last dude turned out to be willing to feather his own nest when the heat got intense. Ergo, that turned into a clusterfuck for you. How do I know your next hired gun will be more professional? I don’t want any blowback on yours truly.”

Pullara scowled. “I just flew a trusted relative in from Palermo to take out this Burke person. He’s very skilled and, since he’s blood, he’ll never betray me. Now, tell me where the other assassin is being held. I initially ordered him to send that obnoxious politico right to hell, and now I want to make sure that rat bastard will be joining him.”

“Maybe I’m not ready to share that information just yet,” Neal hedged. “I can’t be sure you’ll carry through on your end of the bargain. Burke has to die first, then you get an address and you can do your thing.”

“Caffrey, my associates have many ways to persuade reluctant talkers to divulge information. Do you want to get a feel for that?” Pullara threatened.

Neal raised a cynical eyebrow. “If you go that route, you’ll just wind up with another dead body on your hands. If I fail to show up later, my friends will take their guest directly down to the Federal Building and you’ll wind up right back where you started months ago. Now, can we just conduct our pending contracts like gentleman without all the heavy handed threats?”

“Double-cross me and you’ll die a slow, painful death,” Pullara snarled.

“Sir, you’re being redundant,” Neal taunted. “I heard your lethal insinuations the first time. Now, let’s talk about Peter Burke. Tomorrow I’ll messenger over his schedule, but I think the easiest way to catch him unawares is right in his own home. If you want my take on it, that’s the best and safest option to kill him. I just happen to know that his wife has a weekly evening meeting with her catering staff every Monday. That takes place in Manhattan, so she’ll be out of the townhouse where they live in Brooklyn. It’s a quiet neighborhood and the homes are quite close together, so no gunshots, not even using a silencer. I certainly don’t want to tell your man how to do his job, but maybe a knife or a garrote should be his method of choice. He could be in and done in a matter of minutes.”

“I think that’s doable,” Pullara agreed. “Give me a number where I can reach you, and I’ll let you know when the assignment’s been completed. Then I’ll expect reciprocation and another address, as well.”

“I hate to sound skeptical,” Neal grimaced, “but I think the only way I’m really going to be sure that the murder takes place is if I’m there as well. I want to watch Burke die while he watches me. Tell your relative he’s going to have a sidekick along during the drama.”

“You really are quite a macabre little ghoul, Caffrey,” Pullara replied slowly.

“Oh, I have many evil hidden depths, Mr. Pullara,” Neal replied softly before standing and retracing his steps to the front door. He only retreated momentarily to snatch his hat that he had almost left behind on the library couch.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the following Sunday, Neal got a text from an unknown number instructing him to be on the corner of Beekman and Front Streets in lower Manhattan at 9 PM on Monday night. Neal loitered in the dark until a nondescript Honda Accord pulled over to the curb and he found himself sliding in beside a swarthy man in black clothes wearing leather driving gloves. They quickly accessed the FDR and crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, but nothing was said until they parked down the block on DeKalb Avenue.

“That’s Burke’s house,” Neal said unnecessarily as they crept up the street and noted that there was a soft, flickering glow emanating from the front window of the home, most likely from a television. “I’m very familiar with the layout. Our best point of entry is the back kitchen door. I also know that every Monday evening Burke takes a beer out of the refrigerator, lets the dog out into the backyard, and then settles in to watch the NFL Monday Night Game on the tube. He’ll be distracted and won’t see us coming.”

“I can pick the back door, but the dog could be a problem,” the assassin mused.

“Let me do the heavy lifting,” Neal said quietly. “I can take care of the mutt. He knows me so he won’t bark while you do your thing and quietly jimmy the lock.”

Everything went smoothly. When the two home invaders unlatched the backyard fence, Satchmo immediately began wagging his tail happily. “Good boy,” Neal crooned softly as he took a rawhide bone from his jacket and allowed the Yellow Lab to take it in his mouth and contentedly flop down on the grass. Serendipitously, the kitchen door had been left unlocked. Inch by inch, the lethal duo slid into the darkened house on silent feet. They spied the silhouette of Peter Burke’s head and shoulders through the archway leading into the dim living area. He was seated in a Queen Anne wingchair with his back to them watching uniformed teams of burly men move a pigskin down the field towards two goal posts. Neal noted that the hired assassin had extracted a piece of heavy wire from his jacket. The ends had been threaded through two wooden handles, and the noose would make the perfect killing tool—silent but extremely deadly.

Neal actually held his breath as they crept forward, only moving off to the side when he saw the killer strike like a coiled cobra as he quickly looped the garrote over the seated figure’s head and yanked fiercely. The closing scene of the dangerous drama was about to come to an end.

As soon as the assassin applied brute strength to the deadly necklace, he sensed something wasn’t right. He had done this many times before and knew he should be feeling the resistance of tough cartilage in the victim’s windpipe. Right at this minute, the wire was easily slicing through flesh like a knife through a custard pie. In fact, the head before him actually tumbled from atop its perch on the shoulders and rolled across the hardwood floor. Suddenly, laser dots from assault weapons found the killer’s chest just a nanosecond before the lights blazed on and a cacophony of demanding shouts echoed through the room. _“Freeze, drop the weapon, then slowly put your hands behind your head!!”_

A similar tableau was simultaneously taking place in a grand mansion in New Jersey as Federal Agents invaded Vincent Pullara’s personal space, courtesy of a no-knock warrant. They placed the Italian crime boss, none too gently, under arrest for ordering a hit on a Federal Agent as well as for plotting to kill a state’s witness in a previous crime.


	4. Let There Be Light!

The next morning, at precisely 6 AM, Peter texted both Jones and Diana instructing them to come to the Burke house before going to the office. Diana had picked up her co-worker, and they were knocking on Peter’s front door a little over an hour later.

“What’s up, Boss?” Diana asked curiously as Jones stood by her side.

Peter seemed a bit sheepish. “Listen, you two, I need to tell you both something before you hear about it later. The top brass at the FBI have a live television announcement scheduled for later today, and I want you to know what’s going on before you see it and feel blindsided. The formal statement will enlighten media representatives that the Organized Crime Division of the FBI was successful in again charging Vincent Pullara with ordering the city councilman’s murder as well as contracting with another hitman to murder a Federal Agent in his home last night. That Agent happened to be me. Thankfully, that guy is in custody as well.”

“Okaaay, that’s a lot to process, Peter,” Jones drawled out his agreement with a puzzled look on his face. He, as well as Diana, looked even more confused and shocked when they followed Peter into his kitchen and spied Neal sipping coffee, eating a Danish, and chatting amiably with Elizabeth Burke.

The con man heard their approach and turned to them with a dazzling smile. “Hey, guys! I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me.”

“That’s something of an understatement,” Diana growled. Jones said nothing because his mouth was hanging open.

Peter quickly stepped in to commandeer the conversation. “I owe you both an explanation as well as an apology. I’m sorry that I couldn’t include you in the loop, but it had to be that way. I couldn’t divulge to anyone in our department that Neal has been in deep cover while on loan to Organized Crime.”

“Wow, Peter, it seems like you do have a lot of ground to cover to get us up to speed,” Jones said slowly. Diana remained silent and sent daggers with her eyes in Neal’s direction.

“Why don’t you all go into the living room and get comfortable,” El chirped, trying to diffuse the almost palpable tension. “I’ll bring everyone coffee and some really tasty baked goods. It will probably take my husband quite a while to tell you his tale.”

When everyone found a place to sit, Peter began his explanation. “This whole thing started after we had Vincent Pullara’s original hired hitman in custody ready to testify against him in court. He was going to swear, under oath, that the mobster ordered him to perform the assassination of the city councilman. The FBI wasn’t taking any chances, so we had the shooter stashed away in a safe house, courtesy of the Federal Marshals.”

“Okay, we’re with you so far,” Diana said slowly, “but then Caffrey managed to compromise the creep’s life by breaking into the Marshal’s Building and finding out his location.”

“That’s all true,” Peter agreed, “but Neal is also the one who warned the guy that his life was in danger and that’s when he split. We still don’t know where he is, and my guess is he fled the country.”

“Why’d you do any digging in the first place?” Jones looked confused as he gazed at Neal. “That’s certainly what got you into trouble.”

“Because Pullara threatened someone that I’m fond of, an innocent child,” Neal replied quite seriously.

Peter nodded and continued the story. “Pullara had one of his goons actually come to June Ellington’s house and make it clear they were shadowing her youngest granddaughter, just a little twelve-year-old. Unfortunately, Neal didn’t feel that he could come to me, and he made the unilateral decision to play the part of a savior and forfeit his freedom. I managed to get him to admit that to me right before I took him into custody.”

“Gee, Caffrey, you’re a regular Sir Galahad,” Diana remarked a bit snidely.

Peter knew Diana was hurt because she wasn’t part of the subterfuge, so Peter didn’t call her out on the attitude. “What Neal did was wrong, but he did it for a selfless reason,” Peter said earnestly. “I broke my promise to him when I went to Hughes and confidentially pled his case, and then Reese went to Bancroft and asked him to weigh in on the dilemma. I guess, to make a long story short, a plan was finally hatched to find another way to bring down Vincent Pullara with Neal’s help. It ended up being a need-to-know clandestine operation run by the Organized Crime boys.”

“I had to fix what I broke while still ensuring the safety of June’s family,” Neal said with a casual nonchalance.

“And so you ended up going to prison,” Jones added.

“Yep, my penance was harsh,” Neal agreed, “but it was the only way to get a dialogue going between me and Pullara. He’s got lots of his flunkies doing his bidding behind prison walls, so it wasn’t too hard.”

“So, you’re saying that Neal ended up working for the good guys,” Diana said. “How did that all happen if you never saw each other. I know you never once went to see Neal when he was in Rikers,” she stated firmly. “Did you drive up to Sing Sing to see him afterwards?”

“Nope,” Peter said with a shake of his head. “I couldn’t go anywhere near him because that might compromise his cover.”

“Burner phones?” Jones asked.

“Not those either,” Peter replied. “There was too much of a chance someone could overhear our conversations, or the prison guards might find a phone in Neal’s cell.”

“So how did you communicate?” Jones insisted.

“Through an intermediary with a little bald head and very thick glasses,” Neal chimed in making Diana groan.

“Okay, Peter, I’m still lost,” Jones admitted. “What plot did Neal and Pullara eventually hatch, and how did the Feds finally take the mobster down?” the junior agent asked.

“It was sort of a bit of blackmail with heavy handed leverage,” Neal now took up the narrative. “I made it clear that I had friends who had managed to find that elusive first hitman, and that he was being held at an undisclosed location until the Italian crime boss and I could broker a deal. The hired gun was a loose cannon, but I would turn him over to the Don only if he helped me out with my problems. First, Pullara had to get me out of prison, and then he had to do a little something else for me.”

“Like kill me,” Peter said with a sigh.

“Seriously?” Diana almost choked.

“Hey, I had everything under control,” Neal said in his own defense.

“Don’t let him downplay the danger,” Peter said as he glanced at Neal fondly. “He took a lot of risks because he never really had anybody holding onto the missing hitman. It was all a bluff.”

“So, how did you sell him on that?” Jones asked.

Neal smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Peter gave Mozzie a picture of the guy wearing street clothes. It was taken when they first brought him in for questioning. Mozzie managed to work his wizardry with Photoshop so the shooter looked like he was snug as a bug in a rug in someone’s kitchen. Pullara bought it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“And how did you get him to confess to everything?” Diana wanted to know.

“Well, I have to admit it was a slick hat trick,” Neal admitted, “but once I got him talking, it was a piece of cake.”

“Don’t listen to that fool,” Peter quickly broke in. “He swanned right into the lion’s den and got it all on videotape. It was a live feed and I was chewing my nails the whole time because it was damn scary.”

Neal laughed and went to fetch his Fedora from the kitchen. “It’s new,” he said proudly, “courtesy of the CIA after Hughes called in a favor.” He then pointed to the little pearl button nestled next to a tiny pheasant feather in the grosgrain band. “This is one of the spooks’ newest toys and it worked like a charm. I just had to make sure I had it aimed in the proper direction when I had my little negotiation with Mr. Pullara. He proved to be very chatty once we got the pleasantries out of the way.”

“You’ve got brass cojones, Caffrey,” Jones marveled.

“Get back to the hit on Peter,” Diana insisted, ignoring Jones and his awe.

“That was the best part of the show,” Neal said cheerfully.

“We had to catch the hired gun in the act of actually attempting to carry out Pullara’s orders,” Peter explained. “We tried to make it easy for him, setting the stage and practically welcoming him with open arms. He was all prepared to garrote the figure that he thought was me. He might have peed his pants when a department store mannequin’s head plopped down right at his feet.”

“Yeah, that was quite a freaky sight,” Neal agreed with an exaggerated shiver. “It was like something out of a Freddie Kruger movie, and it sure scared the crap out of me!”

“Oh, shut up, Caffrey,” Diana complained. “You’re still on my shit list and you may be staying there for a while.”

“Aw, Diana,” Neal gave her his sad puppy look, “you know I didn’t mean those things that I said to you when you came to visit me in Rikers. I was only playing a tough guy just in case there were listening ears.”

“What things?” Peter asked curiously.

“Need to know, Boss, and you don’t need to know,” Diana quipped.

“So, where does that leave you, Neal, after all is said and done?” Jones asked logically. “Are you going back to prison or back to your desk in White Collar?”

“I’m getting a pass on my little indiscretion,” Neal replied with a grin.

“Yeah, until next time,” Diana snorted.

“There better not be a next time,” Peter growled.

“Well, if there is and I’m sent back to prison, I hope it’s not Sing Sing,” Neal shuddered. “Warden Haskley might harbor a grudge and he’d probably slap my butt in solitary for the rest of my natural life. There are also a few other prisoners who may like to see me dead, so maybe Peter can finagle my jailtime in some faraway place like Idaho or Montana.”

Peter’s face looked menacing. “Like I said, Neal, there isn’t going to be a next time!”


End file.
